


Dress Code

by Agent_24



Series: Fair Game Week 2020 [2]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Dating, Didn't Know They Were Dating, Domestic, Fluff, M/M, Miscommunication, fairgameweek2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:28:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23112460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_24/pseuds/Agent_24
Summary: Clover invites Qrow out to see what Atlas has to offer. Which is fine—great, even; Qrow might even go so far as to think it wonderful or dreamy—except that there’s been a teensy, tiny bit of...miscommunication.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Series: Fair Game Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1661305
Comments: 26
Kudos: 147





	Dress Code

**Author's Note:**

> Day 2: Date/Domestic

Qrow is underdressed.

It’s intensely undeniable with all the highclass, wealthy Atlesian elite walking in and out of the restaurant, which in and of itself is grand and sweeping with balconies, heavy velvet curtains, greeters and goddamn valet parking. Qrow is underdressed and he knows it and damn, he already wants to go home. Not that he’d bought a plethora of nice clothes for his stay at Atlas to begin with, but his pale gray slacks, white button-up, black blazer, and his cloak pinned to his shoulders against women in sparkling, floor length dresses and men in full suits…

Qrow hadn’t even bothered to wear a tie. His collarbones feel so exposed all of a sudden that he might as well be naked.

“There you are,” a voice says, too close to his back.

“Shit!” Qrow exclaims, whirling, caught up in his thoughts and embarrassed about it. 

Clover tilts his head and smiles, and Qrow wonders if that was the intent. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, but Qrow would bet money that the way his mouth twitches at the corner is giving away a lie. Sea green eyes drift over Qrow’s form, and he adds, “You look amazing.”

He does not look amazing. Good, sure, but not amazing. If anyone looks awe-worthy, it’s Clover, dressed to the nines in a fine black suit and tie with a deep green vest underneath, the white of his shirt highlighting the warm color of his skin and his suit jacket doing wonders for his broad shoulders and strong arms. Qrow feels heat rising under his collar, though whether it’s from Clover’s appearance, the compliment, or Clover’s eyes on him, he can’t say. 

This, he reminds himself, is not a date.

“I’m underdressed,” he says once he finds his voice again, and rakes his hand through his slicked back bangs self-consciously. “When you texted me to ‘dress nice’, I didn’t think you meant ‘black tie’.”

Clover laughs. “Sorry, I should’ve been more specific. But this suits you, y’know?” He cocks his hip, one hand in his pocket while he uses the other to motion for Qrow to spin around. Qrow sighs and turns in a circle, feeling a hundred pairs of eyes on him. 

“You look great,” Clover insists, though he steps closer and adjusts Qrow’s cape a little, spreading it out over his shoulders a bit more. “Frankly, I think this place could use a little more style like yours.”

“You mean less like I have a million lien to fling around at my whim,” Qrow grumbles.

“More like being attractive enough to catch the eye of everyone in the room doesn’t _need_ to cost a million lien,” Clover corrects. He winks. “Which, by the way, you pull off effortlessly. I’m jealous.”

Qrow’s mouth falls open for what feels like an extremely long five seconds before he collects himself and shuts it. He feels like his whole face has gone as scarlet as his cloak. He clears his throat. “Uh…thanks. But uh…speaking of lien, this place looks a little outside my price range. I wasn’t exactly picking up the best jobs while following my nieces around Mistral and most of my first Atlas paycheck went into replacing just about everything I owned, so...”

Clover blinks, confused. “Qrow, I invited you here. I wasn’t going to make you pay.”

“I—” Qrow starts, then trails off. If he blushes any harder, his blood might start boiling. He sticks a hand in his pocket and rubs the back of his neck, scuffing his dress shoes on the sidewalk. “You always go to these lengths to show new Huntsmen around your city?”

“Just the ones I like,” Clover teases, then offers his arm. “Shall we?”

Qrow blinks, then takes his arm out of surprise more than anything else. 

Inside, a host deftly flicks his gaze over Qrow’s attire before turning his attention to Clover. “Your reservation, sir?” he asks.

“Ebi,” Clover answers.

 _A reservation?_ Qrow blinks in surprise and then feels dumb for it. Of course a place like this requires reservations when the patrons are so largely Atlas’s one percent. But Clover had invited him out a day ago. Could you get a reservation in a less fancy restaurant that quickly, even with the social sway a person like Clover undoubtedly has in a militant city?

The host checks over his list and then nods, grabbing two menus. “Follow me, please,” he says.

They follow. Qrow works on attempting to get the visible confusion off his face. Something feels almost off here, between all of Clover’s compliments and this exuberantly rich venue. It strikes Qrow that, possibly, he’d misinterpreted the invitation even worse than he’d originally thought.

But maybe he’s just not used to big city living, or high ranking Atlas special ops living. Qrow absently wonders what kind of paycheck someone in Clover’s position brings home and then abruptly decides that he doesn’t want to know. 

The restaurant is lit dimly but artfully, with chandeliers that glitter with crystals and jewels and lights that cast an almost romantic glow over the place. Conversations of the guests layer over each other, but with a quiet and refined air that’s very nearly overshadowed by the sound of clinking plates and silverware. The host brings them to a table within view of one of the balconies Qrow saw from outside, a cool and pleasant breeze rustling the table skirts.

“Your waiter will be with you shortly,” he says, then bustles off to seat the next customer.

Qrow can’t help feeling immensely uncomfortable and out of place. The warm flutter he feels in his belly as Clover pulls out a chair for him isn’t quite enough to overtake it.

“Clover,” he tries as the man in question takes a seat. “Isn’t this—”

He’s interrupted by their approaching waiter, who politely introduces himself with a little bow of respect and readies his pencil. “May I start you off with some wine or champagne?” the waiter asks.

Qrow immediately feels himself drain of color, his throat closing up with nerves. For a split second, he wants to say yes. He wants to taste the familiar fizz in the back of his throat, feel that airy, bubbly feeling in the back of his brain. At the same time, the thought of being inebriated again makes him queasy, and he can’t help thinking his girls would be so, so disappointed— 

“We won’t be drinking any alcohol tonight,” Clover answers, “but thank you. Iced tea with lemon is fine for me.”

Qrow stares at him. Clover meets his eyes and smiles, genuine, and Qrow ends up answering a beat late when the waiter asks him what he would like. “Iced tea is fine,” he manages, and the server ducks away after leaving them with menus.

He doesn’t know what to say after that. Qrow thinks he only ever mentioned his struggle with alcohol to Clover once, that first time they’d sat in the back of a transport playing cards. He thinks about that compliment Clover insisted he take (a budding habit for both of them, apparently) and flushes a little warmer for it.

“The steak here is good,” Clover says after a moment of pressed silence, opening his menu to glance over it.

Qrow exhales, nervous. “The steak, he says,” he mutters. “Clover, listen…isn’t all of this…a lot?”

Clover looks up. “What do you mean?”

“All of this.” Qrow waves his hand vaguely. “I mean, hell. A black tie place? Just to show me around? I mean, I know Atlas has excess, but—”

“I wasn’t trying to show off the excess,” Clover interrupts, frowning. “I just wanted to take you somewhere nice. I thought it’d be a good surprise.”

“I’m not saying it’s not nice,” Qrow says, rushed. “It’s…it’s just more than I’m used to. When you said you were going to show me the city I thought you meant…I don’t know, nice bars or clubs or something.”

Clover tilts his head. “You don’t drink.”

Qrow hunches his shoulders, almost wishing for his wings to hide himself a little better. “I didn’t think you remembered,” he admits.

Clover’s frown deepens. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t _know,”_ Qrow says helplessly. “That’s not the point. I just figured we’d be going somewhere…more casual than this. I mean…” he motions at his own clothes.

Clover shuts his menu, apparently electing to abandon his search for food for the time being. “Would you rather go dancing?” he asks curiously, and doesn’t sound too terribly against it.

Qrow feels a sharp burn of embarrassment suddenly overtake his face, partly because the last time he went dancing (the last many times he went dancing?) he’d undoubtedly been absolutely wasted, and partly because he’s very sure that the kind of dancing he’s familiar with is not the kind of dancing one does with their friendly coworkers. Not that Qrow wouldn’t—or hadn’t—in the past, but with Clover that seems…wrong, somehow. With any Atlas personnel, Qrow might wrinkle his nose in distaste, but Clover, specifically… 

It makes his thoughts take a violently steep dive into the gutter. He does not, he decides, without caring to put too much reason behind it, want to get into that kind of relationship with Clover. Something about what they have going so far seems too genuine for it.

This, he reminds himself, is not a date. At least, as far as he’s immediately aware.

“Uh,” he answers finally, then lies, “I’m not that great a dancer. I just mean…” he pauses, realizes he doesn’t know what he means, and pinches his brow. “People don’t usually treat me like this at all, and definitely not just to show me around their hometown. Hell, you’re buying me food, for gods’ sakes. Our drinks alone must’ve cost…” he pauses and trails off as Clover suddenly flushes a vibrant enough red to rival his own. “What?”

Clover clears his throat and looks away, suddenly very intent on avoiding Qrow’s eyes. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” he admits.

Qrow blinks, his suspicions returning full force, and suddenly he feels like he’s burning all over. “Oh my gods,” he says with growing horror. “This _is_ a date.”

That startles a laugh out of Clover, though his face is clouding over, eyes only briefly giving away that he’s upset before going an almost blank neutral. Military through and through, Qrow thinks, and can’t help feeling a prick of annoyance at James in the back of his mind.

“I thought you realized,” Clover says. “I mean…I thought…nevermind what I thought.” He clears his throat again, then starts to get out of his seat. “We should just go—”

“Wait!” Qrow blurts. “Wait, no, I’m sorry. Shit. I just…” he groans, then buries his face in his hands. It feels like he could get doused in a bucket of ice water and still be too hot. “Gods, I’m an idiot.”

Clover pauses, then sits back down. “You don’t have to stay if you want to leave,” he says hesitantly.

Qrow rubs at his temples. “Dammit, Clover, I don’t want to leave. I mean…maybe this place, but not you. Jeez…” He looks up again, watching Clover’s face go slack with surprise. “Look, I just thought Atlas militia had a weirdly fancy definition of hanging out. But I wouldn’t have said no, if I’d known what you meant.”

There’s a long, awkward moment of silence before Clover laughs again, brightly this time. Qrow’s so glad for the difference that it shocks him. “Wasn’t I being obvious?” Clover asks, leaning forward with his elbows propped on the table.

Qrow watches him and feels the corner of his mouth tick upwards. It seems like a flagrant display of bad manners, considering the venue. He considers that Clover might be nowhere near as proper as he likes to present in front of their teams and decides that he likes that idea very, very much. “I mean, you have all the subtlety of a hand grenade, I just didn’t think you were going to actually go for it so soon.”

Clover’s eyes nearly glitter, his gaze landing on Qrow’s collar before he returns to eye contact. “I could never see much of a point in denying myself what I wanted,” he says, and then he bites his goddamned lip.

Qrow, admittedly, is rendered speechless, and he must have a really stupid look on his face, because Clover snorts in amusement, then asks, “Hey, you wanna go eat somewhere else? Somewhere casual, like you said.”

Yeah, he fucking does. He really fucking does, actually. Qrow can feel a grin spreading over his mouth. Somehow, he hasn’t ruined the evening; _somehow,_ the evening just got a whole lot better than he’d anticipated it being. “How casual is ‘casual’, Mr. Black Tie?” he asks.

Clover shrugs. “Casual as you want,” he promises. “Casual as it takes for you to relax.”

“Does Atlas have any shitty burger joints?” Qrow asks hopefully.

“Do we really look that stuffy?” Clover asks, then laughs when Qrow raises a brow and looks pointedly around the restaurant. 

The waiter returns with their drinks then. “Iced tea with lemon?”

“Actually,” Clover says, throwing a wink at Qrow before standing up and pulling out his wallet. “We have to go. Big emergency. I’m very sorry. Huntsman business, you know how it is.”

Qrow stifles a laugh as Clover tips the waiter for his trouble, and steps close when Clover cocks his head at him. He expects Clover to offer his arm again, but this time, Clover just puts his hand at the small of Qrow’s back. Qrow feels himself flush all over again, then slides a little bit closer until Clover’s arm can settle around him properly. Clover glances at him, clearly pleased, and they head out a bit slowly for two people on their way to an emergency.

A half hour later, they’re laughing and cracking jokes over burgers and fries in a 24-hour diner. The burgers are greasy and the fries have way too much salt, and both of them are horribly overdressed.

“I lied before,” Qrow admits, only pausing to chew his fries. “I do like dancing. And I’m good at it.”

Clover hunches his shoulders like he might choke on his burger. “I figured,” he chuckles once he’s gotten a hold of himself. “So, what, you didn’t want to go with _me?”_

“No! I just…” Qrow flushes a little and shrugs playfully. “Wasn’t sure where that was going to end up going.”

Clover grins and wiggles his brows. “Where’d you want it to end up going?” he asks.

Qrow snorts. “Ease up there, tiger,” he teases. “I wasn’t trying to get into that kind of mess with you.”

Clover tilts his head, an innocent enough motion if not for the sly glint in his eye. “What mess, like a one night stand or something?”

Qrow flushes, just a little, and waves his hand dismissively. “Look, it wouldn’t have been the first time, is all I’m saying.”

“But you like me better than that,” Clover presses. He’s grinning, and doesn’t look like he could stop if he wanted to.

Qrow blinks, then turns a full, cherry red. “Well,” he admits, “yeah.”

Somehow, Clover’s face brightens. It’s cute. Qrow doesn’t think he’s ever seen that kind of look on the man before, almost like a kid given his favorite sweet.

And then he ruins it by joking, “So, hypothetically, if you _had_ been aware that it was a date…”

Qrow raises a brow, unable to keep his entertainment off his face. “Easy,” he repeats, a little lower in his throat this time.

It does the trick. Clover blinks in surprise as a dark blush floods his cheeks, lowers his sandwich and looks away with his mouth hidden behind his hand. Qrow only feels a little bad for teasing him in the middle of a restaurant.

They pay (way more than what Qrow thinks could possibly be appropriate for a place to qualify as a ‘shitty diner’, but still) and they’re so deep in conversation that Qrow hardly notices that they just keep on walking when they leave. Clover walks him through Atlas’s public gardens, and for just a little while it’s easy to ignore the city’s ever lingering military presence in favor of flowers and shy rabbits that retreat as night settles. It’s impossible to see the stars here, between the mining and the city lights and the constant threat of a blizzard, but it’s a beautiful night still, and the broken moon highlights the path, the fine shimmer in Clover’s clothes, the sharp cut of his jaw.

“So there I was,” Qrow goes on, “just realizing I was about to get launched into midair in a skirt, and considering I never made a habit of wearing them before that, I had no idea that I was supposed to wear combat shorts underneath, which meant all my classmates were about to get real acquainted with my ass real quick—” 

Clover laughs so hard his shoulders shake. For just a second, Qrow is reminded of old times with Team STRQ, back when Taiyang still enjoyed his company and Raven wasn’t a traitor and Summer—

“Ah, shit. So what’d you do?” Clover finally asks, wiping a tear from his eye.

It knocks the sad trail of thoughts right out of Qrow’s head, and he answers, “Naturally, I did what any young man would do. I let them see my ass.”

This sends Clover into another fit of laughter, which is good, because he apparently decides that now is a good time as any to take Qrow’s hand, and Qrow needs a minute to recover from that.

He likes how easily their fingers slot together. Clover’s hands are bigger than his, warm and solid and sturdy, and Qrow feels…secure, in some way, like this out of all the other things that's happened tonight is what really makes it abundantly clear that Clover wants him. 

He’s still riding that high when they make it back to the dorms. Clover is a gentleman and walks Qrow all the way to his room, and they stand outside his door still talking for another half hour before the Academy bell tower lets them know it’s well past midnight. 

“Guess I should turn in,” Clover says reluctantly. 

It strikes Qrow that they never really let go of each other’s hands, their fingers still loosely entwined. “Guess so,” he says, a little disappointed. Atlas military wakes up at ass o’clock in the morning, and he almost feels guilty for keeping Clover out this late.

Almost.

“I know you said you were underdressed before,” Clover says hesitantly, already distracting himself from leaving, “but you really did look beautiful tonight. I meant that.”

Qrow feels his cheeks turn a pleasant shade of pink. That’s how he knows he’s got it bad, all this blushing, when nearly every other time he’d been pursued, he’d largely kept his wits about him. “I know you did,” he says, then adds, sheepish, “I never told you how good you looked.”

Clover’s pretty green eyes twinkle. “Yeah?”

“I mean, you know.” Qrow clears his throat. “I’m sure you saw a mirror. That suit does you favors.”

“Thanks,” Clover says, his grin pleased and sharp. “I’ve never seen you comb your hair back before.”

Self-conscious, Qrow rakes his fingers through his bangs and hopes he doesn’t smell like hair gel. “I don’t wear it like this often. Too much effort.”

“I like it,” Clover says, voice just a touch lower in his throat than before. His grin widens. “Makes you look like you could get a guy into trouble.”

Qrow huffs, flattered and trying not to show it too obviously. “Maybe I’ll get you into trouble then,” he says. “Next time.”

Now, Clover’s smile turns more genuine, less teasing. Just happy. “Next time,” he murmurs.

Qrow hums affirmatively. He’d like a next time, when there’s no confusion in the beginning as to what’s budding between them. He’d like a next time without all the frilly clothes and frillier rich people and just…more of Clover off-duty and a little bad-mannered, more elbows on the table and more unrestrained laughter. 

Qrow exhales quietly and works up a tiny bit of nerve before he leans forward to press a lingering kiss to Clover’s cheek. He wouldn’t have minded a kiss on the mouth, would’ve liked it, even, but…well. Something about this man makes him think it wouldn’t be so bad to take his time.

“Goodnight, lucky charm,” Qrow says, unbearably pleased with the slack surprise on Clover’s face.

“Goodnight,” Clover manages, a little high pitched, and Qrow catches him reaching up to touch his cheek as he shuts the door. 

_Next time,_ he thinks, pressing his back to the door and exhaling, a stupid smile worming its way over his mouth.

He feels light and airy enough to think he’s on wings.


End file.
